


Taste

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Oral, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, just that, that's honestly it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9640058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: I want that red velvetI want that sugar sweet





	

His waist was sinful to this very day.

Ratchet wouldn’t lie, it still made him feel a bit giddy; how slim Perceptor had stayed even as he had fortified his frame. Broad and tall and lean and sly; with that soft grin like the airy taste of good high grade.

Ratchet laughed to himself.

Perceptor was working late- again. He had out-overtime’d the resident master of working too much.

And Ratchet decided the scientist-turned-sniper needed a reward for such good behavior. 

He slunk into the lab, knowing by the soft thrum of music that Perceptor was working alone. He paused, only a few steps behind Perceptor and taking in the scientist’s silhouette from behind as Perceptor huffed and grumbled over the datapads spread over his desk.

The sniper paused, looking over his shoulder before turning to face the CMO.

“Ratchet, what are you doing here?”, he asked, voice almost innocent. He leaned back, holding the edge of the desk in a nervous habit he never lost.

Cute.

Ratchet merely grinned, enjoying the warmth it still brought to Perceptor’s cheeks.

“…Ratchet, something tells me you are here for activities of a less than innocent nature.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”, purred Ratchet in reply, biting back the chuckles as he heard the low hum of Perceptor’s fans clicking on.

“Because you are eyeing me like a youngling watches sweets on the table.”

“And you like it.”

“Irrelevant.”

Time seemed to stop.

And it started with a clash worthy of titans in forgotten pantheons. Perceptor was reaching for him almost before the CMO was pressed too close to be polite and sinking dentae into exposed neck-cabling just to hear the shaky gasps rattle from Perceptor’s vents.

Too-knowing hands mapped Perceptor’s new frame, servos sliding into seams to stroke and pluck at the cabling there and pull those soft and desperate noises from the scientist.

New frame, new duty- same hunger.

“How boutcha open for me, Percy?”, growled Ratchet into the scientist’s audial, “Lemme take care ‘f ya.”

With a gasped moan, Perceptor’s panels clicked away so fast they seemed to just disappear from existence. Ratchet laughed, low and dark and predatory as his left servos curled around Perceptor’s spike and gave it a smooth stroke.

Perceptor’s hips jerked, and his helm tilted back as he exvented Ratchet’s name like his spark’s last flare.

Ratchet’s hand moved slow and smooth, his grip solid and firm. Every stroke pulled another sound from Perceptor, as those long legs shook and he clutched desperately at the desk to stay upright.

“R-Ra-Ratchet-”

“I know sweetspark. Feels good, doesn’t it?”, purred the CMO, a thumb sliding over the head of Perceptor’s spike and making the scientist shudder.

Perceptor whined when the grip faded, his vents clattering as he panted through them and his fans whirring like the rumble of oncoming stormcells.

And Ratchet went down to one knee, then both. His hands gripped Perceptor’s hips, and he pressed a kiss to the scientist’s pale thighs.

“I locked the door behind me.”, he whispered against Perceptor’s plating, “And the labs are soundproof.”

Another whine.

“Let’s hear ya sing for me.”

And Ratchet’s glossa lapped at the dripping tip of Perceptor’s spike.

The scientist all but convulsed from the touch, his body curling slightly as his abdominal plating flexed. Ratchet licked his lips, glancing up at Perceptor’s already debauched expression before slowly swallowing the scientist’s spike to the base. He relaxed his intake, optics shuttering as he felt the head bump the opening of his intake, and he swallowed around its girth.

Perceptor wailed. 

The sniper’s frame curled over Ratchet’s helm, clawing at the CMO’s plating for a moment before he managed the straighten and place his shaky hands back on the desk.

His hips bucked against Ratchet’s hold, and the medic moaned again.

Perceptor spat static, and Ratchet’s helm moved. A slow bob, glossa tracing biolights he still remembered and microseams he had memorized ages before- back when Perceptor’s voice was softer and his frame lighter.

Not much had changed.

Broken moans and staticky pleas echoed in the air as Ratchet slowly worked Perceptor over with nothing but lips and glossa, listening to the rising crescendo of the sniper’s voice.

A hard suck, and Perceptor writhed in Ratchet’s hold. The spike throbbed against Ratchet’s glossa and he slid his mouth forward pausing to swallow around it every so often- just to tease, just to taunt and just to hear that high-culture voice lewdly beg for just a little more.

With his face against Perceptor’s pelvic span and his intake full on desperate need, Ratchet swallowed once again.

Servos gripped the CMO’s helm and Perceptor howled; his hips trying hard to move even as Ratchet held them still and that lilting Universtiy tone shattering like sugar glass in a hailstorm.

And Ratchet’s hands moved away from Perceptor’s hips, letting them roll as he relaxed his jaw and and hummed softly.

Perceptor’s voice was strained as overload ran rampant through his sensornet, singing each circuit like a lightning strike as Perceptor’s optics flared white and flickered before going dim.

Weakly, Perceptor held himself up on the edge of the desk as Ratchet slowly moved off of the limp spike; licking his lips before kissing the head.

“You still sound too pretty to be a Wrecker, Percy.”, he teased gently, before barking a surprised laugh as Perceptor’s shaky servos hauled him up by the edges of his chestplate.

“I swear to every deity in every pantheon if you don’t bend me over this desk and overclock me _immediately_ I’ll-”

“Or, we could sneak back to your hab and see how many times I can work you over before you gotta call in on your next shift.”

“That better be a _promise,_ Ratchet.”

“It’s my _sworn duty.”_ , said Ratchet with that vicious grin, “I mean, ain’t it my _job_ to take the best care of you?”

“Then get to _taking care of me._ ”, growled Perceptor through his own grin.


End file.
